After Psalm Eight

From the terrace, I can see the workof your fingers: the constellation Perseus,his sword, trailing the sea,fixed against the sky. The masterworkof light which lingers on the surfaceof the sea transfixes me.

The nightfall has blurred the placewhere your fingers bind ocean to air.Stepping off the dock, I shiveragainst the water, unmindful of my face,hushed and pale and unaware.And, who am I—quivering—

that you would give me heed?A moon-jelly ribboning beneath my feetglows faint like a ghost,its green light tangled in the weeds.